First person by Susan Skene
The problem is I don’t fit the mould; never have, never will. Their world can’t countenance the likes of me and that’s a problem. I think it’s their problem, they think it’s mine and there’s the rub. They don’t, won’t understand. I’m weird, crazy, or both. I gave up on them then. Better that way. I tried to fit in, but they knew and I knew that I didn’t. I kept myself to myself, stayed out as much as possible, stopped communicating. That’s the way it was and still is. The only way out was to dream of living the life I wanted. I changed. Everything changed.
When I met Patrick and he felt the same as me, it was a revelation. I was amazed how telepathic he seemed before he’d even heard my story. Patrick’s family is like mine, except his is Catholic which makes it even worse! Guilty as sin. We are both outsiders in their world, but Mum still visits me. Dad doesn’t. His dad doesn’t visit either. We’ve both been airbrushed out of existence.
I don’t know what’s brought these thoughts on, but I think it must be Uncle Charlie’s visit today. He is always full of stories of his time at the Liverpool Playhouse working behind the scenes, and I get a glimpse of this ‘other’ world, brimming with salacious ‘goings on’, that consists mainly of his ‘bent’ stories of low life, or of a shady criminal underworld, both of which he inhabits. He cheers me up no end, especially as he’s furtively thrust a tin of what he calls ‘wild woodbine’ into my hands, with a clandestine wink goodbye. It’s the best medicinal compound that I’m looking forward to enjoying with Patrick in the garden later.
It’s nine o’clock now. I’m awake and can’t get to sleep. Patrick didn’t arrive at 7.00pm as promised. He rang to say sorry he couldn’t make it but something had come up. He’d come by tomorrow instead. That’s was all. I feel low and depressed like a tearful, pathetic teenager stood up on a first date. Ridiculous.
Patrick turned up this afternoon looking like he’d been clubbing all night. I didn’t ask. He brought along some Irish cousin introduced as Brendan who’d travelled from across the water. He’s staying at the flat until he gets his own place. News to me, but in the circumstances I decide to keep the wild woodbine for only myself and Patrick. Turns out Brendan works in the same bank as Patrick. He helped him get the transfer. Of course, bringing Brendan along obviously changed things. We couldn’t talk intimately about how he’s been feeling with Brendan present . Brendan appears shy at first, a rather arresting quality …best guess, about ten years younger than Patrick. I expect I’ll come to know him better, as soon as I’m back home. I can’t wait for life to return to normal. I need to get past this, live for Patrick, instead of wasting precious time here.
I was completely taken with this. I couldn’t tell the age of the narrator, but she’s in some sort of place such as a hospital which keeps her away. The thing with Patrick and Brendan seems completely sinister to me (otherwise why introduce Brendan, must be crucial to a future plot….). Is there some sort of gaslighting going on here? Is there a relationship between Patrick and Brendan? Has Patrick conspired to obtain the narrator’s flat in some way? Lots of clues, part 2 please…..
There was plenty left unsaid here so that we want to know more, though it’s clearly not going to be good news – Patrick missed his visit and now has a new friend… it’s poignant and sad, especially with the narrator’s assumption that things will get back to normal soon.
I can’t wait for life to return to normal.’ sums up the poignancy, pain and delusion of the narrator’s state of mind.
From Simon: This is an intriguing piece of writing, because it’s full of clues as to what’s going on, but the reader – well, this reader, anyway – is left at the end not entirely sure what’s happened. It shows how effective and intimate the first person voice can be. From that very direct first sentence, one is instantly in the mind of the narrator. The way I read it, the narrator has some kind of mental problem – possibly autism – and is living in some sort of institution. I get this from the reference to ‘visits’ from her (I’m assuming it’s ‘her’ rather than ‘his’, though we’re not told that) mother and Uncle Charlie. The latter brings his recollections of a world outside and also the ‘wild woodbine’. That was the original name of the famous ‘Woodbine’ cigarettes though, given the narrator’s relish for it, I wondered whether the baccy might be a little wackier. Not sure whether the piece fitted the brief but, as ever, that didn’t matter, because it’s writing which raises questions that need answering – and that means one wants to read on.